


The Ninth Circle.

by murgamurg



Category: One Piece
Genre: Depressing, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Sanji POV, Toxic Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murgamurg/pseuds/murgamurg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking in from the outside, you'd never know anything was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ninth Circle.

_I only fuck you when it’s half past five_

_the only time i’d ever call you mine_

_i only love it when you touch me, not feel me_

_when I’m fucked up, that’s the real me_

_when I'm fucked up that's the real me, yeah_

 

* * *

 

Hands wrapped in dark blue leather clutched themselves tighter around a wool peacoat. The buttons and layers could only repel so much of the evening’s frosty air. Slivers slipped silently through any space in the fabric; under the cashmere scarf, slicing through the fine jacket underneath, lodging themselves deep into pale skin. Eliciting a shiver and a frustrated huff from the coat’s wearer as he tightened it around himself again.

Sleet and the throes of winter lay heavy on the sky and on his mood, as they had for the previous month. Rendered this walk back to his apartment nothing short of torturous. Purgatory, surely, was not as miserable as this.

Lamplight glittered through standing water on the slick sidewalk, only broken by the sharp staccato of hard-soled boots. They carried the huddling body up concrete steps, and stopped right before the door. The gateway to warmth. Instead the boots moved to the side prodded a gray, fuzzy thing that lay to the portal’s right. It mewled at the contact, and wiggled away just enough. Just enough to stay warm, stay alive.

Thin, dry lips cracked a wry smile. The coat bent in half, blue leather patting once, twice on the fuzzball's freezing head.

“I’ll bring you something soon,” he spoke quietly.

A relieved exhale shot past his tongue as he entered the building, pressing the button for the elevator. Heat bled and oozed into him, thick and viscous and slow. The cold would not go willingly, and hooked painfully onto sore muscles and stiff tendons. Fingers flexed, toes curled and uncurled. The elevator dinged, and a door slid open.

He stepped in.

Machinery whirred, floors thumped by as he ascended. Slate gray eyes watched their reflection in the elevator’s mirrored door; trailed from the hollow bags adorning them, to sallow skin of a cheek and fragile like porcelain. The jaw peppered with a dusting of fine hairs. He watched the figure raise a hand to rub at the stubble. The face frowned, deeply.  

The figure vanished when the lift slid open again. It revealed a plain hallway, threadbare carpet.

Feet led him to the correct door. The key inserted, lock turned, door opened. Not home, no. Just the place that he lived.

He perused the fridge for something adequate. Made a trip downstairs, the kitten purring at its meager offering. A smile playing across thin lips, a shiver down a lithe back. Chilled hands, and a scratch behind the ear.

_Don’t get to attached. He’ll be gone by morning._

He returned to the apartment before his fingers got frostbite.

Eyes lingered on the yellow digits of his microwave’s clock. He opened the fridge. Promptly closed it, already  knowing there was nothing in it he wanted to eat.

Long fingers grasped their way around the neck of a green bottle. They extracted the cork, poured a glass. The sanguine liquid glittered malicious in the low interior light. Filled the glass almost to the rim.

Hips swayed, long legs crossed to the den, curled up on the couch. Took a long sip from the glass, read a magazine while savoring the on the back of his palate. Lit up a cigarette to pass the time, soothe ragged nerves. Listened to talking heads on the television so the room wouldn’t feel so empty.

Wondered if he should be expecting company.

The receiver on his wall crackled to life. His eyes snapped up from the tabloid, boring through the wall like the person in question was just on the other side.

“Hey, Cook.” The voice was calm. Deep. Measured. Like nothing was wrong. Like this entire situation wasn’t fucked beyond all recognition.  

Lungs expanded, contracted. Slate eyes on a speaker.

“Can I come up?” The voice rumbled.

He stared. A thought flit between his ears, leaning over to whisper inside. _Ignore him,_ it hissed. Small claws dug into the earlobe. Pricks of blood emerging from the marks. _Say no._

A chink of glass on the table. Flat soles crossed the carpet, recoiling from the cold tile. A thin finger pressed into a button next to the speaker.

His own voice echoed in his ear. “Yeah. Door’s open.” Like it was someone else.    

The line cut off. He resumed his place on the couch. Downed his wine glass in one go. Got up and refilled it. Thought about another cigarette.

Thudding really, was always the first thing. Footsteps, thudding loudly down the hall. Uneven rhythm. Halting in front of his apartment door. The door creaking open, and then slamming shut. Keys jingling as they came to rest on a countertop.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t want to.   

A shift in fabric and the other moved into the den. Without boots the feet were almost silent, catlike. Stepping cautiously across another’s territory. Making it his own, imposing his presence.

“Hey.” He grunted.

Finally, he looked. Peered, through unkempt blonde bangs. Colors flashed across the stoic face in front of him, cutting relief from a cheek made of granite. His clothes were plain, much too light for the weather. Dark eyes boring into his own, the cold chilling daggers of winter.

Slate eyes flicked to the half-empty bottle of whisky clutched in thick fingers. The liquid reflected in the slight sway of his gait, the amber color bleeding from his dilated pupils. The only way he ever showed up here.

“Hi.” It was a flat tone, flat response. Unimpressed.

Greeting exchanged, the man slumped into the other end of the couch. Tilted his head towards the blonde, arm resting on the back of the sofa. An unsubtle invitation.

A calloused hand reached slowly, came to rest on his cheek. The thumb rubbed against the hairs there, unusually long. Gentle pressure from dextrous digits pulled their faces together, moved their bodies closer. Talking heads on the television chatted idly.

They shared breath. Slate eyes slid closed, to better enjoy the bouquet that was this man. Booze, and mineral oil. Sweet smoke, with a sharp overnote of women’s perfume. The chalky smell of lipstick.  

Something ugly clutched at his stomach, twisted it. Crawled out from a place he wasn’t aware of. Stuck to his lungs, made it hard to breathe. Filled his vacant chest, organs gone on holiday.

“She know you’re here?” His voice was low, slightly cracked.

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line. Eyes averted, landing on the television. Not seeing the blonde in front of him.

“No,” he grit out. Eyes slid closed. Opened again. Pupils so wide his eyes were black.

He pressed their lips together. The heat they brought to the blonde’s skin was ignored. The fire bursting from thick fingers touching his lean hips, rejected. Flame wrapped around his thighs, bore into his spine. Begged for attention. Licked up a long and lithe back, moulded the bones to fit against the other’s sculpted form. Couldn’t be forgotten.

Pale digits knotted themselves in short, coarse hair. Clutched onto him like he was what made the world real, like his breath could fill the angry hole in his ribs. Mouths breathed hotly into each other. A calloused touch below his pantline. A sick sort of desperation, a need to feel.

Visions of flushed faces, hurried panting. The blinding pleasure. The thing underneath his sternum screaming, rotting away. Leaving bile in his throat.  

A cigarette, held petty between the index and middle finger. Slate eyes wide awake. The back of a green head wrapped in beige sheets. Hewn from marble, save for somnolent breathing.

The nicotine and tar dripped into his chest, stuck like a leech. Accompanied the cold.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tried something different.


End file.
